


No Sheet, Sherlock

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Available in Chinese, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, John is a possessive bastard, John's good at sex, M/M, Sherlock doesn't know what's good for him, There is sex in here, They also love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the scene in A Scandal in Belgravia, in Buckingham Palace. Where Sherlock's sheet is almost ripped from him when Mycroft steps on it, and John jumps a little. Let's just say John doesn't like his lover being on display, and Sherlock knows it.<br/>aka what happens when one gets distracted and ends up writing ~3.5k of porn, just to avoid working.</p><p>This fic is now available in Chinese, <a href="http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=73816&rpid=1256972&fav=yes&ordertype=0&page=1#pid1256972">HERE</a>, by DTberry :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sheet, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers except for minor ones in ASiB (s02e01).  
> No Warnings except for porn.  
> Cross-Posted to LJ (Obsessionality) and Tumblr (the same).

At first it was funny. Of course it was, Sherlock was wearing nothing but a _sheet_ in _Buckingham Palace_. It was amusing, to say the least. Distracting, of course, with the pale line of his thigh, just visible through the opening of the sheet, only slightly defined and dusted with fine, dark hairs. But it was okay. John had good self control. He wasn’t about to ravage Sherlock on the couch and leave a mark there, where everyone could see if they wanted to, and know that Sherlock belonged to someone and they couldn’t touch, or John would be forced to retaliate.

And then there is a conversation, much of which John doesn’t absorb, mainly because he’s a little distracted by the outline of Sherlock’s cock under the wad of sheets, soft and long, and lovely. Sherlock mock-glares at him, and John wriggles his eyebrows in a way that he knows makes Sherlock laugh, and so it’s an effort for both of them to restrain themselves; Sherlock from laughing, and John from jumping his madman.

And then Sherlock’s up, leaving, and Mycroft steps on the trailing edge of the sheet and John almost snarls. How _dare_ he expose Sherlock in front of this stranger? How _dare_ he even _think_ of touching what is John’s? Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother, yes. Brothers do foolish things. Sherlock’s boundaries of ‘acceptable’ are a little skewed, but Mycroft’s are just fine. Unclothing someone in front of business friends is Not. Acceptable. Thankfully Sherlock had caught the sheet before it had completely revealed him, and John was only very slightly distracted by the fine curve of his arse and his lean hips.

And so they go home, and Sherlock’s making him laugh in the cab because he knows how protective John gets, and it works in easing his tension slightly, but not completely. Sherlock is his. Other people are fools. Sherlock should know better than to provoke his jealous tendencies. And he knew what he’d been doing. Knew perfectly well how to push John’s buttons. Well. Consider his buttons pushed.

Mrs. Hudson was away for a day, thank goodness. Who knew what she’d have done in response to seeing a so-very-nearly unclothed Sherlock. And John shepherds Sherlock upstairs, very deliberately not responding to the taunting sway Sherlock adds to his gait. He wants sex, yes. He’s provoking John to give him sex.

It makes him wonder about Sherlock’s past relationships when he saw that Sherlock honestly didn’t know how they worked. He didn’t have to push John’s buttons to turn him on. He turned John on by being himself. He didn’t need to provoke jealousy or possessiveness; John was all that about him anyway. Sherlock’s past lovers must have been fools if they’d made him beg for attention. He wondered if they’d even seen how lovely he looked when attention was _lavished_ on him. He also wondered if he could find out where they lived and _kill_ them.

Neither of the thoughts were particularly useful, so he pushed them away in favour of batting Sherlock’s hands gently from the lock, where they were fumbling, and taking the key with an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pressing warm, wet kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder-blades and spine.

Sherlock shudders and John, who is really very good at this, stabs the key into the lock with a loud snap, and twists with a quick flick of his wrist, and Sherlock, who is very smart, sees the metaphor analogy thing, and _moans_.

The moment John closes the door and locks it, they’re kissing and it feels like John’s been aching for it for _ages_ now, the slick heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the taste of his full, sensitive lips, and his slippery tongue against John’s own. Like Sherlock’s kisses are laced with something addictive, cocaine, maybe, and John goes into withdrawal every time he’s deprived of them. He loves kissing this man.

This man, who still has his sheet around him, the ends bunched closed with one firm fist, even as the other runs frantic lines up and down John’s spine when John pushes him into a sofa, so he can _finally_ bend down and control the kiss instead of tip-toeing up to follow it. Sherlock whimpers and the sound goes straight to John’s cock.

And before he can think about it, he’s pulling Sherlock up. “Bedroom.”

Sherlock shakes his head frantically, and the heat dims for a second, until he says, “Here. _Now._ ”

John’s vision blanks for a second as he imagines taking Sherlock right here, on the floor. Pushing the coffee-table out of the way and lying Sherlock on the carpet and fucking him on saliva alone, making him cry out and call John’s name, pushing him until there’s red carpet burn on Sherlock’s soft skin, making him and reminding him, along with the ache inside, that he belongs to John, for _days_.

When his vision clears he finds he’s kissing Sherlock, probably subconsciously to keep him quiet while he plans out his fantasy, because Sherlock is so loud in real life that it only follows he is loud in bed, and while John _loves_ it, _God_ , he does, they do have neighbours with a colicky baby to worry about.

And the idea of carpet burn is delicious, and he _wants_ it badly, but Sherlock needs to be able to run. He can’t afford to be less mobile just because they’d had sex. So he shakes his head and pulls upwards. Sherlock stands, not questioning, and follows. So does the sheet. John blinks.

The sheet is still firmly clutched in Sherlock’s left hand, closing at only one point in the centre. It’s fallen off his slender shoulders, in a mockery of a fancy evening gown. Only Sherlock doesn’t need a diamond necklace. The wings of his collarbone are more than enough attraction. John bites the left one gently, then the right one, following each with a kiss. It doesn’t hurt now. It could, if John did the right thing. It’s good to remind Sherlock that, sometimes. The results are obvious when Sherlock blinks at him, bewildered; his pupils are so large that John can barely see his iris. It’s flattering.

And Sherlock still hasn’t let go of the sheet. He will, eventually, John trusts that. He’ll let go when he wants to. Till then, John will do his best to drive his flatmatebestfriendboyfriendlover insane. And judging by how hard he is under John’s thigh, it wont’ take too much.

They use John’s bedroom, mainly because it’s cleaner. He doesn’t pull the bed sheets undone, just pushes Sherlock (who apparently, likes being pushed around in bed) down and climbs over him for a kiss. Sherlock is rock hard. John can feel it though his clothes, which haven’t yet come off. That’s an easy enough problem to solve. It’s the work of a few seconds to shuck off everything. Jumper, t-shirt, socks, shoes, jeans, boxers. He’s just as naked as Sherlock is, under that sheet. Just as desperate, if the jut of Sherlock’s cock is anything to go by.

It makes for an obscene picture. Sherlock, flat on the bed, eyes blissed out, shoulders pale, and thin, and bare, pale pink nipples, pebbled and hard, sheet fisted on his sternum, and cock jutting up, proud, dark, with a slight sheen. It’s all John can do to not take him in his mouth and suck, make Sherlock wail as he is wont to every now and then. He knows another, slower, more pleasurable way to make him wail.

John kisses the head of Sherlock’s cock, enjoying his quick, sharp inhale, and then he’s got two fingers inside Sherlock, gentle despite his speed. It’s good he always keeps his nails short and smooth. It means he can tell when he’s hit Sherlock’s prostate, besides the way Sherlock stiffens and thrusts upwards into air. The look on his face, his open, panting mouth. “Christ Sherlock.”

“John.” It’s a low, shuddering moan. And suddenly John remembers why he was supposed to pound Sherlock seven ways to Sunday, anyway. The way he’d taunted John. Flashing tantalizingly pale, untouched skin where he had no business showing it. John is not normally this possessive. He doesn’t like his partners attracting attention, but it’s their choice in the end. And he’s no one to stop them. But Sherlock knew what he was doing. He wasn’t attracting anyone’s attention, except John’s. John was quite happy to take the bait.

And Sherlock wants it. John knows. But John wants Sherlock to _beg_. He’s capable of doing that. So he bends over, with his fingers still inside Sherlock, and takes Sherlock’s length into his mouth. He’s lovely, dark and musky and salty. So are the whimpering sounds coming from Sherlock’s mouth. If he were to look up, he knows he’ll find Sherlock’s toes curling. The visual memory makes him grin. He loves Sherlock’s tells. He loves knowing him well enough to know them. He just flat out loves Sherlock.

“John.” The one syllable name is dragged into a magnificent three, and then four beats. Sherlock’s _semi-_ begging. Not good enough. John takes Sherlock deeper, letting him nudge past his gag reflex and hit the back of his throat. He lets his teeth graze the base of Sherlock’s cock, and he is ready for the wild buck he knew was coming. “ _Please_.”

John almost grins. Good. But not nearly good enough. He pulls away gently, letting Sherlock feel his lips leaving, kisses the tip with a slurp. Sherlock whimpers. John _does_ grin this time. “Lesson learned, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hmms in a high-pitch. John doesn’t blame him. His fingers are on Sherlock’s prostate, circling gently. He knows what prolonged pressure can do to a man. He also knows what prolonged not-enough-pressure can do. Sherlock responds better to the latter. It makes him needy and desperate and more shameless than usual. He does interesting things when he’s truly stripped of his shame.

“I’m not hearing words, love. Whom does this cock belong to?” The words are low, hoarse. Side effect of the deep-throating exercise. Sherlock doesn’t reply. John makes to withdraw his fingers.

“Yours!” Sherlock snaps at the same time as his hips buck, pulling John’s fingers deeper inside. John obliges. He’s not a monster. Well. Not much, anyway.

“Hmm. Not quite convinced. Whom does this arse belong to?” he asks, and lets the fingers of his other hand press into Sherlock’s hip, half-spread possessively over one buttock.

John notices that the sheet is still fisted over Sherlock’s sternum, and he works his fingers lose with his mouth, sucking on slender fingertips and grazing his teeth on the pads of Sherlock’s fingers, and uses the hand from Sherlock’s hip to unwrap the sheet. John unwraps him, like he’s a gift. There’s a slight exhale and John’s kissing the flat of his chest, dry, soft, affectionate kisses. Absent, like he’s not thinking about it. Loving.

“You,” Sherlock whispers. John snaps to attention and grins, and drops one last loving kiss before the grin turns feral. “You.” His voice is fainter, and that’s because his breath hitched when John moved to tongue his nipple. Sherlock is sensitive there. Very sensitive. John nips and Sherlock mewls, and the sound makes his knees go a little weak. He laves over it and does it all over again until Sherlock’s back is arching and he’s got his hands on John’s head, holding him down, forcing him to put more pressure. He obliges. Sherlock’s never known what’s good for him. Good thing John’s there.

He kisses and sucks and licks and nibbles and bites at Sherlock’s abused nipples, left, then right, giving him exactly what he wants until it’s too much, and John knows it before Sherlock does, feeling him clench down hard on his fingers before Sherlock finally pushes John’s good shoulder, nonsense words and noises pouring from his mouth. He loves Sherlock like this, when he’s babbling nonsense and his brain’s clearly short-circuited, _loves_ that he can get Sherlock to this place.

He licks his lips and Sherlock’s eyes roll backwards, eyelids fluttering shut (and doesn’t he have extravagant lashes), and John can’t help it. He goes for a kiss, drinking in the noises his change in position cause, when his fingers shift inside Sherlock. He’s not going to add a third. He knows Sherlock likes the burn. He knows he likes to sit down and shift slightly, feeling and remembering it, when he’s thinking. Sherlock’s told him he likes the burn. But John won’t let him be hurt. So he adds a little more lube and slicks  him up again, feeling a distinct looseness where it had been tight as sin before. He’s pretty sure it won’t hurt him overmuch, now.

“Whom to you belong to, Sherlock?” he asks, and it’s into the corner of Sherlock’s neck, where the skin is soft and sweat-damp.

Sherlock whines when he bites there, leaving a mark that will be seen just above his collar. “Tell me.”

Sherlock’s opened his mouth, and he’s trying, but he can’t get the words out when John is sucking another kiss-bruise just below the first lone, purple marks blooming on his pale skin. All he can manage are noises. “Sherlock, tell me. Whom do you belong to.” It’s not a question anymore. It’s a statement. John knows the answer. He wants Sherlock to say it. He’s going to keep Sherlock suspended on the knife edge of pleasure, the way only a medical man can, until he says it. Sherlock thinks his brain might actually combust if something doesn’t happen right _now_.

“You. I belong to you.” The words are hoarse, quivering, but certain. Not resigned so much as desperate. “Please John, _please_.” And he’s clenching his teeth as another kiss is sucked below the first and the second, so much sensation concentrated somewhere. He doesn’t know how but John seemed to understand better than anyone else that shutting down his brain wasn’t a matter of distracting him from everything with expansive, tiring gestures and activities. It was a matter of providing something for him to focus on that he couldn’t deduce, that he couldn’t be distracted _from_. John’s the best he’s ever had.

“Right. You belong to me, Sherlock. And if you show anyone else that much skin. Mark my words I’ll have my name tattooed on your arse.” The thought is so insanely arousing, the idea of _belonging_ to someone, of never belonging to anyone else ever again, Sherlock writhes. He can’t, there’s too much feeling, it’s driving him insane.

John seems to know, and quick as a flash he’s added yet more lubricant to his fingers, slicked around his own cock, and he’s picked up Sherlock’s leg and arranged it over his good shoulder. He bites into the tendons of Sherlock’s thigh and if he doesn’t move Sherlock is going to pin him down and impale himself on Sherlock’s cock, and then John’s inside him.

There’s no hesitation, none of this hitching bit-by-bit business. John’s stretched him out and he likes the burn and John is perfectly confident, which is good when you’re giving someone complete control over your body. And it’s true. Sherlock would promise John anything in exchange for him _moving_.

John grips his hips with both hands, and Sherlock fists whatever material he can find and he sobs a little when John thrusts once, twice, thrice, and he’s losing count faster than he’s ever done before. John never holds back. He never promises to be gentle and then accidentally hurts Sherlock. He tells Sherlock exactly what he’s going to do, what his aim is (drive Sherlock out of his mind), and then does it, and Sherlock _loves_ it. And he knows John would die before he hurt him. It’s easy to trust John. It pays off, when he can let John do what he will to Sherlock. He entrusts his body and his pleasure to John, and he knows John will take care of it. He always has.

It’s ceaseless, and John’s got bloody stamina, and every thrust sends a shock of pleasure through his whole body, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore and he doesn’t particularly care, and he’s so close to the edge. But he’s been so close that his body is stuck there, perched on the edge but refusing to go any further, and the frustration makes him whine. His nerve endings are on fire, and he’s over sensitized, and John is hot and hard and full inside him, and it’s so much, too much and then John’s speaking to him. He has to focus to listen, because his head’s truly out of it now.

“Do you know what you look like?” Sherlock wants to answer, but he can’t. He don’t know how to make his tongue work. He can feel _everything_. “You look like an angel, fallen straight out of heaven. On my bed. You’re beautiful, Sherlock.”

The words send a different sort of pleasure through him. So far it’s been high intensity, nerve tingling pleasure. This is different, warm, and gentle from the bottom of his belly.

“You’re absolutely stunning, and I want to keep you like this.” The idea, the _thought_ makes Sherlock whimper. If there’s any more of this he might just die. “I want to keep you naked and wet and open for me. So I could go out for dinner with Mike and come back and just fuck you, just like that. I want to leave you here,” and Sherlock wails, and John, the bastard, is smiling, “and keep you waiting for me. Leave you hanging there, on the edge, with no one to help you down. And I know when I finally make you come, your brain’s going to shut down completely, and when you come out of it you’ll know better than to taunt me again.”

“Not,” Sherlock gasps “an incentive.” John’s laughing, quiet, truly amused.

“Then the next time, I’m just going to find a really big dildo and keep it in you until you’ve learned your lesson.” It’s not even a warning. It’s a promise. Sherlock shudders. “I’ll fuck you and then I’ll lube you up and stuff you with a dildo. Nice, non-porous glass one, keep you stretched open for a day or so. See how you like running around London with something like that inside you. You won’t even take it out because you’ll take it as a challenge, you stubborn arse,” and John smacks his bum, making him gasp. “And then,” John pushes harder on the next thrust, and he can’t breathe deep enough, his lungs are full and he still doesn’t have enough oxygen. There isn’t enough oxygen in the world. “And then I’ll bring you home when you’re so wet and aching and sore, and I’ll eat you out.”

John’s got remarkable self-control, and must really want Sherlock to go mad if he’s held out for so long. He’s gasping by the end of his description, sweat dripping from his body, stinging in his eyes, and Sherlock is incoherent. John knows he has a good imagination. He can see everything, in his head, and the pleasure of the fantasy imagined, and the pleasure of John fucking him relentlessly, long, deep thrusts, everything’s coming together and it’s magnified and glorious and John’s changing the angle and lifting his hips in a different way and “Come for me, Sherlock. Come right now.” And it’s more than enough.

Sherlock’s coming, sobbing with his release and John fucking him through it, through the spasms he knows John will be feeling, and his legs can’t stay up anymore and the sensation is too much to handle and then John’s coming, deep inside him, wet and hot and not giving up despite his stuttering rhythm.

Sherlock’s breathing heavy, _panting_. So is John; they’re both gasping for air, like they’ve just run a marathon, and the endorphins are making them smile, making Sherlock smile through the haze in his mind, and it feels so good.

His muscles are burning, aching and tender. John slides out of him and wipes them cursorily with his t-shirt and collapses beside him. “I may never recover,” Sherlock whispers, but he’s smiling wide enough for his jaw to hurt.

John snorts. “If I should be so lucky.” Sherlock rolls his eyes because he knows John doesn’t mean it, and John knows Sherlock knows that. That’s why he said it. And then John kisses him on his shoulder, once, twice, three time, so _much_ sweet affection, and dozes off gently, breathing slowing down.

And there’s questions to be asked, and things to be said and done, and issues to be clarified, and outfits to be chosen before they go haring off after this Adler woman. But it can all wait. Everything can wait. Sherlock’s plan had succeeded. John was happy. Nothing else mattered. 


End file.
